Prisoners of the Christmas Truce
by katbybee
Summary: 2017 HH Big Bang. Inspired by "Christmas in the Trenches," by John McCutcheon, (sung by John McDermott.) Newkirk's safecracking skills may reveal the reason for Klink's attitude towards the Heroes when a search for a new codebook reveals an old diary belonging to a young German private who was present at a Christmas truce in France, 1914, when he met a young Benjamin Newkirk. UUD.
1. Sticky Fingers

**October 1942**

 **Stalag 13**

"But Colonel..."

"No, Hogan, I do not want to hear any of your excuses. He knew what he was doing. He was caught red-handed."

"Yes, but maybe his hands wouldn't have been so red if the barracks were a little warmer." Hogan watched as Klink's expression clouded for a moment in confusion.

"What has the barracks got to do..." Klink stared at Hogan for a split second, anger written on his face. "No, Hogan. Not this time. You will not distract me with your double talk! Your man was caught with the codebook. I demand to know what he thought he was doing stealing top secret documents out of my safe!"

Hogan countered, "Well, perhaps if you brought Newkirk in here, you could ask him. I'm sure I don't know." Underneath the banter Hogan was worried, but he was not about to show it. "Newkirk sometimes has sticky fingers, but I'm sure he had a good reason. Maybe you dropped it somewhere...you have lost it before, you know."

Klink scowled. "I did not lose it, and you know it. No. Your man stays in the cooler until further notice. And I _will_ get to the bottom of this. I am not the fool you seem to think I am. Do not push me, Hogan. Dismissed."

Hogan was startled when the Kommandant barely nodded and turned away from him. Klink placed the codebook into a desk drawer and ignored him completely. Uneasy, he slipped from the room. _Oh, boy, Rob. You may have just blown it sky high!_ He trudged back to Barracks Two, pulling his jacket tighter around himself, deep in thought. They would just have to wait for Klink's next move.

~HH~

Klink called Schultz into his office. "I want you to put two guards on the cooler. Specifically, on Corporal Newkirk's cell. I do _not_ want him to have any visitors. As of now, he is in solitary confinement."

Schultz's eyes widened. "Jawhol, Herr Kommandant-wait, not even Colonel Hogan?"

Klink eyed his sergeant coldly. "Most _especially_ not Colonel Hogan. Please go inform Hogan." As the guard turned to obey, Klink's voice stopped him and he turned back around. "And Sergeant. See that you do not allow yourself to be bribed by Corporal LeBeau's offers of strudel or other food. Otherwise, it will not go well for you. Do I make myself clear?"

Hans Schultz studied his commander for a moment. It was as if the man had turned into a block of ice. He nodded grimly. "Jawhol, Herr Kommandant." And he left the office without another word. Hilda sat at her desk and watched Schultz go. She was as confused as the sergeant. What had happened? It was not the first time Peter had been caught at the safe. What had made this time so different? Why was her boss acting so strangely? He had nearly bitten her head off when she had taken some letters in for him to sign. She shook her head as she returned to her filing. She would simply do as she always did...keep her ears open, and report to Hogan when she could.

~HH~

Schultz entered Barracks Two nervously. Even though he was their guard, most of the time, he felt more like a guardian and a friend than an enemy. Not this time. He could not explain the Big Shot's attitude. He was acting almost as if he were someone else. In all the time Schultz had been under his command, he had never seen his commander act this oddly...so cold and uncaring. He may not have been the bravest soul in the world, but Wilhelm Klink had never once been a calculating or cold person...not until today. And now Schultz would have to bear the brunt of Hogan's anger because of it. And he had no doubt Colonel Hogan was going to be _very_ angry. And Schultz didn't blame him one bit.

"What?!" Hogan was furious.

Schultz held his hands out before him, trying to placate the American as the other prisoners crowded around, also protesting. " _Please_ , Colonel Hogan! I told you, there's nothing I can do! No-thing." He paused sadly. "I wish I could. I have never seen the Kommandant like this." He turned to go, and then looked back, as serious as they had ever seen him. "And boys, I know you have ways of breaking in and out of the cooler whenever you like. Please don't. I will tell Newkirk the same thing. I am very afraid the Kommandant would have him shot." And he left the stunned group silently.

~HH~

Alone in his office, Klink sat behind his desk, staring blankly down at the mounds of paperwork. He saw none of it. He saw nothing at all. Well, that was not exactly true. He leaned back in his chair, and sighed deeply. _Why? Why had the young corporal stolen it? How could he have taken the one thing that could ruin everything? The one thing that could betray them all? And what could he do? The damage was done._ Stiffly he rose from his chair. He stepped out of his office. Hilda turned from her typewriter, concern written all over her pretty features.

"May I help you, Kommandant?"

Gravely he shook his head. "No, thank you, Fraulein. No one can help me now. I am not feeling well. I will be in my quarters. Please tell Schultz I am not to be disturbed when he returns. You may leave after that."

Hilda nodded, not daring to express her thoughts as the Kommandant disappeared into his quarters. She did not dare try to see Hogan today. It would have to wait. She settled back behind her desk, but knew she would not be getting any more work done that day.

~HH~

"Solitary? Fer 'ow long? Crikey, wot the hell'd I do?" Newkirk was incredulous. "An' wot's with the extra guards?" His accent was nearly unintelligible.

Schultz regarded the younger man carefully. "You know what you did. You got caught."

Newkirk calmed slightly. "Yeah, but it's not like it's the first time. What's got Klinky all tied up in knots this time?"

"I do not know. But you have upset him badly. He has ordered that you are to have no visitors at all. Not even for meals. The guards are to see to it. I am afraid he would have you or the others shot if you try any monkey business."

Newkirk looked deeply into Shultz's eyes and realized the big guard was not joking. Slowly he nodded. "Don't worry, Schultzie, we won't. But could you do me a favor?"

Schultz nodded slowly. "I will try."

"Tell Colonel Hogan and the others I'm fine. And not to try anything. Whatever's wrong, it's not worth it. I'll be okay. And I'll see them after Klink gets over 'is snit."

Schultz nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Pieter. You are a good boy. I will tell them."

And Schultz left, stopping by Barracks Two on his way back to the Kommandantur to deliver Newkirk's message.

For his part, Newkirk lay back on the hard wooden bunk wondering what he had done to cause the normally mild-mannered camp commander to get so angry with him.

As he pulled his greatcoat tighter around himself, he felt something in his hidden pocket-something he had forgotten about in all the excitement. He pulled out the small book he had pinched along with the codebook. He had figured it might contain some useful information. He settled back, grateful for any distraction at this point. He had no clue the battered little book was about to change his life.

~TBC~


	2. The Diary

Peter was grateful that he could read and write German fluently, as well as speak it nearly as easily as a native. He had only the light coming in through the small, high window, but there was still enough light for him to see by, especially as it was still only mid-morning. As he scanned the cover and the inside front pages, he was surprised to discover it was some kind of diary. What surprised him even more, besides its obvious age, was the name of the owner…one Private Wilhelm Klink, of the German Army. Intrigued and handling the pages carefully, Peter Newkirk settled back into the uncomfortable bunk and began to read.

~HH~

 ** _23 Nov 14_**  
 _I thought it was a joke when they told us we would not know where we would be…that we would be fighting 'somewhere in France.' But it is true. I do not know where I am. I do know that home is very far away. It does not seem like much that we are fighting for, just mud and burnt out buildings. There is nothing but muddy fields and trenches as far as one can see, which is not very far. I have forgotten what quiet is like. It is never quiet. There are only bombs, and screams, and gunfire—and death. Never quiet._  
 _I am not a coward. I am sure that is what you must think of me. But many of my comrades think me odd because I am quiet and I do not mix much with the others. I prefer to read when I can… I miss my books desperately. It grows dark. I must go._

There were several more entries that were very much the same. Newkirk read them in growing amazement. He had never thought much about World War I one way or the other; let alone what it must have been like fighting on the German side. It struck him that he could just as easily have been reading a diary written by one of the Allies. This thought somehow made him vaguely uncomfortable. He was not at all sure he wanted to feel sympathy for the Germans at all, or for Klink in particular.

 ** _30 Nov 14_**  
 _Today was terrible. One of my best friends was killed. There was nothing anyone could do and Friedrich died in my arms. He was always taking chances, trying to prove how brave he was—that, although he and I were the youngest here-we still belonged. He had declared this morning that he would take the enemy all by himself. They have a gun emplacement that is wreaking havoc on our troops. Friedrich decided he would be the hero who would destroy it. He failed. He was shot in the head before he ever made it out of our trench. Today…was terrible._

Newkirk closed the diary abruptly. He turned his face to the wall. He could read no further for quite a while. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him and he picked up the little book again.  
 ** _4 Dec 14_**  
 _There are rumours of truces along some of the fronts. I cannot think that they are true. The fighting is worse than ever. The loss of Friedrich has made it so much worse. We were from the same town. We had grown up together. He was one of the few who understood my need for solitude. When we were young boys, we built a tree fort in his father's orchard. I used to spend hours in that fort, all alone, even when Friedrich got sent away to school. I was sent to the local Gymnasium. It was all right, because I had the orchard… and the fort. And then Friedrich came home, with talk of the Army. My father decided I would join along with him. He knew someone. And here I am._

And that was when Newkirk realized that Klink had not been spinning stories when he talked of his early years. He could feel the young private's pain. It was not something he was ready for. And it was not something he was sure he could handle. He decided perhaps it would be best to just pretend he was reading about someone he had never heard of—a complete stranger. Satisfied with that idea, he went back to his reading.

 ** _15 Dec 14_**  
 _The Christmas Truce, as they are calling it, is apparently a reality up and down the line. It has not reached us, however. It is somehow my misfortune to be commanded by a particularly uncharitable type. Those in charge seem to feel that a truce for any reason would be unseemly and not in keeping with our goals. I begin to wonder exactly what our goals are. I suppose that might seem treasonous and I do not wish to seem so. I am not. I am tired._  
 ** _17 Dec 14_**  
 _The gun emplacement has at last been destroyed. Four of our men died taking it out. I watched them as they worked their way close enough and finally sent a mortar shell into the emplacement. The screams of the dying enemy gunners were awful. Even worse were the cheers of our men as the gun exploded. I do not know what is wrong with me. I suppose I am not a proper soldier at all. I just cannot see the point of good men dying over a bit of mud._

Newkirk could see his point completely.

 ** _22 Dec 14_**  
 _It seems as if our unit will take part in the truce after all. But only for a short time. Our kommandant has issued a decree that from 2200 on Christmas Eve until 2200 Dec 25 both sides will observe a truce. Just how this truce will be enacted remains to be seen. I pray it will happen, for some peace-no matter how fleeting-would be a blessing indeed._

Newkirk lay back for few minutes. Something stirred in his memory. He remembered hearing somewhere about the Christmas Truce of 1914. It had been an unofficial truce between the warring forces fighting in France and had stretched all up and down a large part of the front. The truce had lasted for as little as a day or so and as long as a fortnight or more, depending on the units involved. And Klink's unit had been there. Fascinated, Newkirk turned the page and read on, oblivious now to the biting cold and discomfort of his prison cell.  
~TBC~


	3. A Truce for Christmas

**A Truce for Christmas**

 ** _24 Dec 14_**

 _I have just learned how the truce is to be put into effect. One man is to bear a flag of truce and carry it out into No Man's Land at 2200 this evening precisely. If he makes it safely and is met by a man from the other side, then the truce will be in place. If not, if the man is shot, then there will be no respite. In fact, I fear the bloodshed will be tenfold what it is now._

 _No one knows yet who the truce-bearer is to be. The kommandant has said he will choose and the man will be sent for just before it is time. I suppose this is wise. This way, the man will have no time to build up any fear. Of course, if the others are anything like me, they are quite possibly too numb to fear much of anything._

 _I scribble this bit by firelight... I have been sent for. I am the one chosen. Probably because I am the youngest of all and the Kommandant considers me the most expendable. No matter. I will do my duty and I will do it with honor. I must go._

Newkirk heard one of the guards grumbling about something as the door to his cell opened. He slipped the diary back into its hiding place quickly. He looked up to see a bucket being placed on the floor just as the cell door slammed shut again. Upon investigation, he discovered that Klink was apparently holding true to his threats. He lifted the truncheon and regarded the watery potato soup with disgust as it slopped back into the bucket. _He would never tell LeBeau this, but he would almost be happy with some of his evil fish stew about now._

After he had choked down as much of the soup as he could handle, he decided to try to get some sleep. It was not late, but he knew that, since he was apparently on short rations, with no clue as to how long he would be in solitary, he needed to conserve his energy. Like most military men he could fall asleep under practically any conditions, and he did so quite quickly. The disgruntled guard seated outside his cell grew even more dyspeptic when a few minutes after he had removed the prisoner's dinner pail the cooler was filled with nearly deafening snores.

~HH~

For his part, Klink sat on his sofa nursing a drink. He was once again staring off into nothingness. He knew that young Corporal Newkirk was reading the diary. He also knew that soon he would know the whole story...that he would make the connection. Klink had taken the diary with him and so had written about some of the events as they were happening. The rest, well, he had written about those afterwards...as much as he could remember. And Newkirk would learn about the whole sorry mess.

What would happen then? He shook his head. It was much too early for bed, but he felt exhausted. The memories assaulting him after the theft of his diary were much too strong. He had been unable to eat anything and had asked Schultz to leave him alone. He would even forgo his evening glass of warm milk. He knew that nothing would help him sleep tonight.

He prepared his quarters for the night and got ready for bed. He considered taking a sleeping pill, but decided against it. The wretched things rarely worked, and when they did, they tended to give him nightmares...of which he didn't need any more. He climbed into bed, praying things would be calm around the camp and that he would not receive any unexpected visitors. He turned out the lights and stared up at the ceiling, letting his mind wander back to that long-ago Christmas...

 **24 Dec 14**

The Kommandant's Tent

"Private Wilhelm Klink reporting as ordered, Herr Kommandant!"

Klink saluted smartly and stood stiffly at attention. The Kommandant spared him barely a glance before he nodded to his aide, who handed Klink a large white flag.

The aide spoke crisply. "You will carry this flag across to the middle of No Man's Land. The Allies will send out one of their soldiers to meet you. Provided you are not shot before you get to the center, you will then wave the flag of truce, and the time of truce will begin once you have planted the flag and shaken the hand of the man they send. Do you understand?"

"I do, sir,"

"Then go. It is time."

Klink saluted again, turned on his heel, and marched from the tent. He realized that during the time he had been in the tent, almost all the gunfire on both sides had ceased. He looked around at his comrades. They were looking back at him with varying degrees of respect and fear in their eyes, as if they wished to believe the truce could happen but were afraid of it as well. A few of the more cynical soldiers, mostly the older ones, simply stared at him bleakly. He could see nothing at all on their faces, and he wondered if he was looking at a future version of himself.

And then there was no more time for thinking as he began his long, cold, lonely march toward the tangled barbed wire that marked the beginning of No Man's Land. Two of his comrades were there, ready to help him through the coils of wire. After he made it through the wire, he lifted the flag to his shoulder, carrying it in the same manner he would his rifle. He was still on the German side of the hill and knew he could not yet be seen by the enemy. He adjusted the pack he carried and continued picking his way through the dark field.

As he often did when he got nervous, he began to sing. _O Heilige Nacht *_...a carol his mother had taught him many years before, and as he glanced upwards he was astonished at how brilliantly the stars shone overhead. The cannons and guns were completely silent now, and he was unaware his voice had carried back to the line until he heard a number of his fellow soldiers join him in singing the carol. Gaining confidence, he raised his voice, and so did his friends. Friends? Yes, friends.

As he neared the top of the hill and the carol ended, there was a moment of silence, almost as if for prayer. He heard a song begin from the Allied side. It sounded familiar, and although his English was not very good, he recognized it as "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen." He smiled. It seemed the truce would be accepted after all.

A few more steps brought him to the top of the hill, and as he watched and planted the truce flag, another young soldier, British by the look of his uniform, was making his way across the field. From the German side another carol was struck up, one Klink loved so very well. He put down his pack and reached inside it. It was rare he ever played for anyone, although it was one talent that, had his father allowed it, could have taken him to the finest conservatory in Europe. He pulled out his violin and lovingly began to play along with the voices. "Stille Nacht" was one of his favorite carols.

The young man marching up from the Allied lines stopped for a moment and listened in amazement. The strains of the familiar carol were so beautiful they nearly broke his heart. He began to sing the English words and, as had happened on the other side, his comrades' voices joined in. "Silent Night" was now being sung in two languages, together, by two opposing armies.

He continued to sing as he marched towards the white flag and the violinist who stood illuminated by the starlight and the silver of a cold December moon. The magnificent strains of the violin began to weave a spell throughout the dark night.

Klink watched the young man advance as the song came to an end, and he quickly put his violin back in its case and put it in his pack. He stood and waited.

At last, the young soldier reached the flag and stopped. Klink realized the other army had likely also chosen their youngest member for this duty as well. He put out his hand and recited the words he had been given. "I am Private Wilhelm Klink. We petition for a truce this Christmas Eve."

The other man cocked his head, his lively green eyes studying Klink carefully for a moment. He suddenly grinned and shook Klink's hand firmly. In a thick accent Klink could not identify, he replied, "An' I am Private Benjamin Newkirk. An' we accept your truce fer Christmas, mate!"

~TBC~


	4. Gifts and Games

As the men in the trenches watched, they waited for a signal. And finally, it came; not from their commanders, but from the two young soldiers facing one another in the center of the muddy field. The German reached out his hand and the Brit shook it firmly.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, men began to climb from their places. When they realized that no one was firing at anyone else, that they could trust the truce, they began to make their way through the mud towards the wire. It was only the work of moments as men on each side pulled down a small section of the vicious coils. They trudged up the hill, which was littered with shells and casings of all sorts. They were stunned when they reached the field at the top. The field was flat and smooth, and because there had been no blood shed there, it looked almost as if this strip had not been touched by war at all.

They looked each other over silently at first. No one was quite sure what to think. One of the Brits, a lad from Whitehall, had a squeezebox and he looked over at Klink. "Y'play well, lad. Join me?"

Klink hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He pulled his violin back out and began to play along with the other soldier. German and English songs-some Christmas, some not-were shared for a while. A few of the men even danced to some of the livelier tunes.

After a while, Klink moved to put away his violin. He was startled when one of the Brits held out a hand. "Mind if I have a go, mate?"

He hesitated for just a moment. Only he and his grandfather had ever played this violin. He saw the glimmer of disappointment in the other man's eyes. Klink smiled and handed the instrument over. "I am honored."

The older man smiled gratefully. "It's been a long while." He held the instrument to his chin lovingly for a moment as he fingered the bow carefully. He then began to play. The first notes of "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" floated over the field and seemed to crystallize along with the gently falling snow. Klink was awed. As the soldier continued to play, all those present realized they were in the presence of a master. All fell silent as they listened. As the echo of the last notes faded away, the men, many with tears in their eyes, were mute and unmoving.

Suddenly, one cheery Cockney accent broke the spell and made them all laugh. Benjamin Newkirk sang out, "Well done, mate! I'd bet Gawd 'imself enjoyed that 'in!

With that, the ice was broken and the men began to mix together and exchange the small gifts they had each brought. They had chocolate and cigarettes to exchange. Some of the Brits had canteens of brandy, and from their encampment the Germans rolled a couple of barrels of beer. This last was extremely well received by the Allies since one thing the French could not make was decent beer.

An immediate debate broke out over the merits of German chocolate versus British chocolate. One lad pointed out that the best chocolate of all was Swiss, which immediately added gasoline to the already fiery debate. One wise young lieutenant broke up the debate by suggesting a football* game, and, to the astonishment of all the men, he pulled a ball from his kit and tossed it to the nearest man.

What followed was the most raucous, roughest, and glorious game any of them had ever played. Since there was not enough light to play by, the men set up flares all around the edges of the playing field. A couple of the soldiers who had elected not to play were put in charge of keeping the field lit.

A few of the officers, who had not been so sure about the wisdom of allowing the men to play the game quite so roughly, watched anxiously, but realized that no bones were being broken and the men were simply blowing off steam. A few cuts and bruises were a small price to pay and the men were having a marvelous time, able to forget… if only for a while.

Klink was one of those who chose to watch the game. He was an astute observer of human behavior, and enjoyed watching the different men interacting with each other. One he particularly noticed was the young soldier who had met him at the flag. Benjamin Newkirk played the game all out. He held nothing back, and Klink was willing to bet that was how he approached everything in life. He let nothing stop him. Watching Newkirk mow down yet another opponent, Klink smiled sadly and touched his violin case. If only he had had the courage to stand up to his father…

He was startled out of his thoughts when the ball hit him squarely in the face. He fell back with a muffled curse, and as he shook his head to clear it he heard a familiar voice.  
"Blimey, mate! You alright, then?"

Newkirk was crouching next to him, peering at him in concern.

Klink scowled a bit. "I am fine. It's not the first time I have been hit by a ball.

Unfazed, Newkirk grinned. "Yeah, well it's the first time I hit you, innit? Sorry 'bout that." And with that, he was off, tackling a nearby opponent who happened to wander by.

Klink frowned. "I'm not entirely sure that is how the game is supposed to be played," he mused aloud.

A British soldier sitting next to him laughed. "It is if you play on the same field as Benji. He's a terror, is that one."

Klink smiled back. "I rather got that impression." He noticed the book in the dark-haired soldier's hands. He had managed to swipe a flare and was using it to read by. Dim light to be sure, but they were all used to that by now. "What are you reading?"

The other man smiled and held up the book. "Dickens. Oliver Twist. One of me favorites. You like to read?"

"I do. I used to take a book with me everywhere I went. Now… it is not so easy. We are only allowed to carry just so much. I had to choose between my books and my violin."  
The young soldier was a bit startled. He hadn't thought of that. "I'm sorry. It must be very precious to you."

Klink nodded but remained silent.

"My name's Francis… what's yours?"

"Wilhelm. I know you are British, but you all sound so different. Where do you come from?"

Francis chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose we do. Me, I'm from Liverpool. Me mate, Newkirk over there, now, he's from Stepney. That's in London. He's a tough one… make no mistake. But he's also one of the best mates a fella could have."

Klink closed his eyes for a moment, wishing desperately that Friedrich were still with him. "He's your best friend, then?" Tears began to escape unbidden from his eyes.

Frances looked at him oddly. "Well, yeah. We grew up together. I was born in Stepney. Me folks moved to Liverpool five years ago when I was fourteen. Why?"

Klink looked at him for a long moment, and slowly stood. He smiled sadly, watching Newkirk as he charged pell-mell down the field, intent on the goal. "Nothing. Enjoy your book, my friend." And he turned and walked away.

~TBC~


	5. Confusion and Memories

"Bloody Hell!" Newkirk's frozen joints popped as he stretched painfully. He sighed as he took care of business. He scowled when he noticed the bucket had not been emptied. Again.

He took off his greatcoat and uniform jacket to try to clean up a bit-an impossibility with only a canteen of water and no soap-but he ran his hand through his hair and splashed a bit of the water on his face. He called out to the guard outside his cell, "'ere, Jeeves, send in me barber an' call for me tailor whilst yer at it, willya?"

"Shut up, Englander!" the guard, Krumm, snarled. Newkirk grinned at that. Such a response out of Krumm was not unusual. The joke around camp was that Krumm hated everybody else and hated himself even more.

"An' a bright g'mornin' t'you, mate!" he called out cheekily as Krumm brought his morning swill in to him.  
Newkirk was shocked when the half-full pail of gruel was suddenly launched directly into his face! The muck dripped down his jumper and onto the floor and the pail bounced painfully off his cheek. The irate guard slammed the cell door shut, locked it, and was gone so quickly, Peter barely had time to register what had happened. He shook his head and sank back onto the hard cot. He rubbed his sore cheek. _What the hell what that?_ Things were definitely getting out of hand. He also realized that as long as he was allowed no visitors and had only hostile guards, he was powerless to do a thing about it.

He also understood losing his temper would do him no good and would only please the guards, two of whom had now set up housekeeping in front of his cell. One was reading a newspaper and the other was munching on what looked like a beef sandwich but was just as likely horsemeat. Both were seated too far away for him to relieve them of any of their valuables. Neither seemed the least bit interested in his bruising cheek or in replacing his meal, if you could call it that.

Peter set about cleaning himself up as best he could, all the while directing rather colorful oaths under his breath to the guards in general and Krumm in particular. The guards completely ignored him, but he wasn't foolish enough to think they weren't watching him.

He propped himself in the corner of the bunk and draped his greatcoat over his legs. He pulled out Klink's diary and opened it, picking up where he had left off. He was curious about what had happened to Klink when he carried the truce flag into No Man's Land.

An hour later, the diary lay abandoned on the cell floor and Peter sat staring at the cigarette he was futilely attempting to light. His hands were shaking so badly, he finally gave it up and dropped both the cigarette and the match back into his greatcoat pocket. He gazed at the diary, unsure what to do. He wanted to know more… and yet he didn't. Because what he had read was hitting entirely too close to home. Not only did the diary talk about his father, but also his Uncle Frank! The "Francis" in the diary was his father's best mate, a man Peter had known all his life. _That_ Uncle Frank! He had been there! So why hadn't Uncle Frank ever said anything about the war? Come to that, why had Uncle Frank let his father kick the hell out of him? He had looked up to Uncle Frank, even though he hadn't been around much…but he had trusted him. Peter shook his head. Trust…

What he had read did not match his knowledge of the bitter and mean drunk Peter had lived with all his life. What had happened? Obviously, something had changed drastically. Could this diary, or more to the point, the fact that he had nicked it, have anything to do with the way Klink was treating him? If so, what did that say about the contents? Did he really want to know? Taking a deep breath, Peter reached for the diary. Aloud he said, "Well, Peter, me lad, nothin' ventured, nothin' gained. Or somethin' to the effect."

He laid the little book to one side, pulled the cigarette and match out, struck the match on his boot heel, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply. He picked up the diary and lost himself in it once more. The next part of the diary was written as a narrative, not just short entries, as if he were looking back on the events.

 ** _26 Dec 14_**  
 _I walked away from Francis and wandered around the edge of the field for a few minutes. Eventually, I came back to the group just as the game was breaking up. No clear winner was declared because so many points had been deducted on penalty that both sides ended in the negative. Private Newkirk seemed particularly unrepentant in this case, and there was much shoving and tossing of snowballs. Post-game celebration began in earnest when several of my fellow soldiers rolled another keg of beer into the field._  
 _We scattered into groups and I found myself drawn to Newkirk, who had pulled out a deck of cards and was idly shuffling them as he watched the others. He commented that he would have started a poker game, but his commander had forbidden gambling during the truce. Instead, he taught me to play gin rummy and we talked about our families._  
 _I was surprised to learn that he was married. He was my age, but he had married his sweetheart the day before he had left for the Army. I did the math in my head and realized he must have been about seventeen at the time. I looked at him in wonder. "How could you know you were in love so young?"_  
 _His eyes were bleak as he lit another cigarette. "Not love so much mate, as it is sense. Anythin' happens to me, m' pension'll take care of 'er. She's a good girl. She deserves it. But I do love her, that's for sure and certain."_  
 _I was shocked. "You don't mean you expect to die, do you?"_  
 _The happy, carefree soul was instantly gone. In its place was a hard, defeated cynicism. "Look around you, mate. You think this little play-party's gonna last fer long? More'n likely, none of us'll ever get home!"_  
 _I said nothing because I knew he was right. Just then, Francis dropped down next to us and punched Benjamin playfully on the arm. He apparently had heard the last part of our conversation._  
 _"Cheery conversation, mates! Look, I was just thinkin'. Me mum's bakin' today. That's what she does on Christmas Eve… remember, Benji?" I noticed that around Newkirk, Francis's accent grew even stronger._  
 _Newkirk's scowl softened as he, apparently, did remember. "Yeah, and all the mobs of family'd start showin' up… yours, mine. Seemed like the whole neighborhood would fill up wi' folks wanderin' in an' out all hours! An' the noise was incredible!" And his cocky grin made its appearance once again._  
 _I told them how we celebrated Christmas in Germany—about the Advent Calendar; a roast stuffed goose and all the other wonderful food on Christmas Eve; exchanging gifts; and going to church for midnight services. Francis looked at Newkirk and then at me. His voice held a touch of wonder as he said, "It doesn't sound all that different from the way we celebrate." We were all quiet for a while. I am sure, like me, they were thinking of home._  
 _Francis pulled a photograph from inside one of his pockets. It showed older couple and two boys, one of whom was Francis himself. He handed it to me. I studied the faces as he introduced me to his parents and his younger brother. His parents looked kind and strong. Like they were good people. His brother had the same wavy dark hair and dark eyes as Francis. He looked about four or five years younger. I told him that he looked like a good boy and he nodded._  
 _Newkirk pulled out a photo of a lovely young woman. "That's me Molly." We smiled. He was a lucky man._  
 _One of the Brits had been wandering from group to group, busy with a pencil and thick pad. I had wondered about it but dismissed it. Francis looked up, smiled, and asked, "What is it, Sketch?" The soldier pointed to his pad and Francis nodded. "Got something you want to show us, then?" The man nodded silently._  
 _He handed me a drawing. I was stunned. It was professional quality. It was of Newkirk and myself, arms flung around one another as if we had been friends for life. I remembered that moment, not long after we had met and were exchanging gifts. I looked up at the sergeant, who smiled shyly. "Thank you so much! This is wonderful—" The sergeant nodded and abruptly turned and walked away. Puzzled, I looked at my companions._  
 _Newkirk was the one to answer. "Mute, is that one. Don't none of us know just why, but 'e's a bloody good soldier, an' a good man. Good screever too, as you can see." He pointed to the sketch._  
 _Francis must have caught my blank look at that last, because he came to my rescue. "He means 'sidewalk artist,' he said helpfully._  
 _I folded and placed the sketch carefully inside my diary, and Francis left when someone called for him. Newkirk seemed to be in a mood to talk. "So, we got interrupted. You got any photos?"_  
 _I shook my head. I told him I had lost them. It was easier than trying to explain that my father refused to be photographed and that my mother was dead. Newkirk simply said, "Tough break, mate," and laid out another round of gin. I was grateful._  
 _Suddenly, Benjamin looked at me. "We can't forget this, mate." I asked him what he meant. "This. The truce. It's important. Even if it doesn't last for long. Even if nobody else ever knows about it. We have to remember."_  
 _"So, what do you suggest?" I was intrigued by the determination on his face. I knew he had a plan._  
 _"When we go home and have kids someday, we name our first sons after each other." I started to scoff at the notion when I caught the look in his eyes. He was serious. He was well into the beer filling his canteen, as was I, but he was dead serious. And so I agreed. He seemed to relax then. He grinned and said, "Well, all right then, here's to Little Benjamin—" I corrected him and told him the "j-a" in German would sound like "ya" and he repeated it properly and continued. "—and to Little William!" We laughed and tapped our canteens together._  
 _Just then a couple of the fellows hurried up and one shouted, "Hey, we found a frozen pond! Right over there!" The other grinned and said, "We've already checked it out, and we can skate!"_  
 _I looked at the two in disbelief. "In our boots? With no skates?"_  
 _They laughed and the taller one said, "Of course, why not? Just spend a bit more time on your arse, maybe!"_  
 _Naturally, Benjamin grinned and lost no time in heading for the ice._

~TBC~


	6. Reflections and Revelations

**Reflections and Revelations**

Corporal Karl Langenscheidt was worried. The prisoners in Barracks Two were his prisoners. His and Schultz's. They were responsible for them, even when one of them was in the cooler. And the Englander Newkirk was in the cooler. Again. But this time it was different. Langenscheidt was very observant. He had received the same orders as Schultz. Newkirk was forbidden visitors, but Schultz was Sergeant of the Guard. He should have been in charge of cooler assignments. And he was not. Instead, he was being kept away from the cooler as Karl was himself. In fact, Krumm had been put in charge of the cooler detail. Krumm presented himself as very cool, calm, and efficient to Klink's face, but behind his back, he was brutal and sadistic. Krumm had been here longer than Schultz, who had come in when Klink had taken over. Karl remembered what it had been like before. He shuddered. Krumm had fit right in.

Karl was at his usual post, on the porch of the Kommandantur. This was not as interesting as it often was, since the men of Barracks Two were spending more time than usual inside. The last few roll-calls had been quiet, as the men were sullen and bitter. Even their resident heckler, Carter, had been quiet, watching Klink with an icy glare. Langenscheidt didn't blame him. He knew the young American sergeant and the Englander were close friends. He resolved to try to check on Newkirk, because he had seen Krumm storm from the cooler earlier. And that was very bad news for the Englander.

~HH~

The object of Langenscheidt's concern was so deeply engrossed in the diary, he never noticed the two cold baked potatoes that were shoved through the slot in his cell door a few hours later. The guard who placed them there saw no reason to call attention to them. If the prisoner wanted them, he would eat them. If not, who was he to care?

 ** _27 Dec 14_**

 _I was interrupted before I could finish my story about the pond. We all made our way over, and of course Newkirk flew out onto the ice as a man possessed. He actually managed to skate fairly well for a man in combat boots and seemed to have a marvelous time. Of course, what he lacked in finesse he made up for in speed and lunacy. Some of the saner men lit flares around the edges and double-checked the soft spots. Thankfully, there were only a couple of those._

 _This time, though, even Francis got out on the ice, and he turned out to be quite a graceful skater. Many others tried it as well, but I have never been much of a skater, so I contented myself with simply watching, as I had the game. I sat back, leaning on my knapsack. I will never forget how crisp and clear the night was nor how beautiful the stars were. I found myself almost happy._

 _I pulled out my diary, intending to write for a while, but the noise out on the ice attracted my attention, and so I put it away and just watched the goings on. I couldn't help but laugh at the antics of the men. They had managed to get a game of "Crack the Whip" going, and therefore there were men flying in all directions, all over the ice._  
 _Suddenly, someone flew off the end of the chain and straight towards me. He missed me, but his leg got tangled in my knapsack and sent it flying. My violin! I dived for it, and though I managed to grab onto it and set it down safely, my momentum sent me rolling into some slushy ice._

 _The next thing I knew, I was underwater. It was black and cold, and I realized I had no idea which way was up or down. My lungs felt close to bursting. I began to panic as water pushed into my mouth and my lungs began to burn. I tried to find my way out, but all I could feel above me was a wall of ice._  
 _I felt more than heard a splash, and something solid was suddenly in the water right next to me. I grabbed on and pushed myself up onto it. I realized it was a man. Someone had pulled me out from under the ice. Suddenly there was something pulling on me, and strong arms pulled me out of the water. It was a few minutes later, shivering beneath a pile of greatcoats, that I discovered the awful truth._

 _Benjamin Newkirk had seen me fall into the water and had dived in right behind me. It was he that I had grabbed onto. He had saved my life. But what neither of us had known was that there was a submerged boulder under the ice. And he had hit it after he had heaved me towards the surface._

 _I watched in horror as the others pulled a struggling Benjamin out of the water. He was bleeding heavily from his head and was fading in and out of consciousness. Someone had gone for help, and both German and British medics responded. Men began to shed their coats to wrap around us._

 _The memory that will always be burned into my brain is of Francis kneeling bare-chested and bloody on the ice next to Newkirk, as he had stripped off his t-shirt and jersey and wrapped them around his friend's head to try to stop the bleeding. He was alternately swearing at and begging his friend not to die on him._

 _The truce was maintained longer than originally planned. The German Kommandant sent a message to the Allied commander extending the time because of what had happed to Private Newkirk, but none of the men mingled in the field. Apparently, they all returned to their own sides and simply decided to wait out the time amongst their own._  
 _I do not remember much about the next few hours. I did find it odd that both Benjamin and I were loaded onto stretchers and carried into our field hospital. I heard a mix of German and English floating around me, and I suppose I must have passed out, because when I next awoke, I was on a hospital cot in a ward and there were several other patients around me. It was dark once again._

 _I listened carefully and through bits and pieces of overheard conversations I learned that Benjamin had survived but was terribly hurt. He was even now undergoing a dangerous operation in hopes of saving his life. I had heard that our unit surgeon was the best on the front. If Newkirk could be saved, he would find a way. It seemed ironic to me that because the team of doctors working to save him were both German and British, the truce was still in place. I wonder if anyone else saw it that way._

 _I suppose he will be sent on to a hospital in France and eventually home to England. I pray that he will make it. It turned out he did indeed have some sort of brain injury. They transferred him to their field hospital last night. And when I awoke this morning, I saw the ambulance wagon pulling out. He has been evacuated. I will never see Benjamin Newkirk again. The shelling and gunfire has begun again. The truce is over. I will soon be back in the trenches._

~TBC~


	7. Pain and Decisions

Peter sat on the bunk, staring into the distance. The late afternoon sun was filtering weakly through the small window and it was much colder in the cell. Newkirk never noticed. He was far away, in a field hospital in France, and it was as if he could hear the artillery fire and smell the fear and stink of the trenches. His father had never once spoken of his time in the army. His mother had only told him once that his father had been a soldier, nothing more. Uncle Frank had never said a word about it. Peter had been a small boy at the time. No one ever mentioned it again.  
He sat back and studied it. The clues were all there. The ugly scar his father had passed off as an old mining injury… his refusal to go near water… his inability to hold any sort of job beyond tar-spreading or mucking-out, and that only until his temper got the better of him. His drinking and violence. His blind rages and bigotry. His hatred of Germans, and—suddenly a new thought sickened Peter. It couldn't be, could it?  
He picked up the diary and looked back through the entries. And he found it. The reason for the beatings and the coldness. The reason he had never measured up, no matter how hard he had tried. He re-read the entry, again and again. And in the light of what he now knew had happened that day on a frozen pond in France, it all made a horrible, sick sort of sense. For Benjamin had been sent home from war, terribly wounded and bitter, and his last clear memory must have been the promise he had made to a young soldier he met there. One his broken mind blamed for a tragic accident…  
And in his cold and lonely cell, Peter William Newkirk wept.  
~HH~  
Karl Langenscheidt was a cautious man. He had much at stake. He knew that the Gestapo would kill anyone they considered an enemy of the Fatherland… or anyone they pleased, for that matter. The families of the guards at the prison were used as incentive to ensure loyalty and cooperation. But he was also a just man. He saw things and understood more than many gave him credit for. He loved his country but did not always agree with its politics or methodology. And hence he found himself with a decision to make.  
He had known for a long time that Hilda was a member of the Underground. He had known the Stalag was much more than just a prison camp. He had known the prisoners were no ordinary prisoners. He and Schultz had made a pact to look the other way when it seemed right to do so. But now… what he was considering would cross a line. He would no longer stand at the fence. He would be a traitor…  
He lay on his bunk and looked up at the ceiling. He did not see it. All he could see was the Englander's bruised face, which morphed into Krumm's treatment of Carter during the work detail the previous week. Karl would bet the American had never reported the bayonet jab he had received in the side from the brutal guard. Carter had done nothing to deserve it. He simply hadn't moved fast enough to suit Krumm. Karl reflected that the guard was lucky none of Carter's friends had seen him.  
Karl had seen Carter put his handkerchief inside his shirt and keep silent. Apparently, the wound was slight but painful. That was the kind Krumm specialized in. Karl had been trying to figure a way to get Krumm transferred out of the camp for a while. He just hadn't had evidence that Krumm couldn't explain away. Now, his decision made, Karl would get rid of Krumm for good. And he knew just how he would start. He would go to see Col. Hogan. He also knew he would have to be extremely careful or he might find himself getting shot by both sides. He would put his plan into action on his next day off. Satisfied, he finally drifted into a troubled sleep.  
~HH~  
When Peter turned the next page, he found a faded sketch folded into the pages. His breath caught. It was of two brash, smiling, dark-haired young soldiers-one German, one English. They had their arms flung around one another and looked as if they could conquer the world at that moment. Oh, how Peter recognized the man on the right! It was almost like looking at a mirror image of himself-cocky, confident, and so sure he could twist the world to his liking-nothing like the cruel, shrunken drunk Peter had known all his life.  
And the man on the left, standing so straight and brave-not really much like the Klink they knew at all.  
~HH~  
Peter set the book on the bunk. He found the potatoes and used a bit of his water ration to wash them as best he could. He choked them down, though eating was the last thing he felt like doing. His emotions were all over the map. He knew there was more to the diary, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know any more. Besides, his father was out of the picture as far as Klink was concerned. So why did he still feel drawn to the little book? He sighed, lit a cigarette, and picked it back up.  
There were a few more entries covering Klink's Kaiser war service. He really had become a pilot, and served for a brief time. He returned home and trained as a bookkeeper.  
He was never able to eat chocolate without thinking of Benjamin, which is also why he rarely smoked, though later he would keep a box of cigars on his desk for guests. Most of all, he hid his talent as a violinist. He could not quite bring himself to give it up completely. But he pretended to be terrible.  
He never married, and he found employment with an accounting firm in Bremen. His father got him a place in the German army as a clerk at the onset of the Hitler war. Most of the entries were brief and boring. And then things changed.  
 ** _12 Nov 40_**  
 _I can hardly believe it. Today, as I was filing routine paperwork, I came across a batch of dispatches. They were the records of all the new prisoners. I found a familiar name. I did some checking on the prisoner, and I thought my heart would fall through the floor. Benjamin Newkirk survived. At least he made it back to England. I know this because his son is an RAF corporal who has been incarcerated at Luft Stalag 13 near Hammelburg. His name is Peter William Newkirk. I must think. Stalag 13 is one of the most brutal camps in the system. The survival rate is dismal. I failed the father. I must not fail the son._  
 ** _3 Dec 1940_**  
 _It is done. When my father discovers what I have done, he will despise me, but that no longer matters to me. What I have done will save Peter Newkirk and perhaps restore my own sense of honor, of dignity. Nothing will ever relieve me of my burden of guilt for what happened that day on the pond, but perhaps I can make some small amends._  
 _I will not leave the boy to die in that camp. I have sold my inheritance to my first cousin, such as it was. My share of our family lands brought enough money for me to buy my commission and bribe my way into command of Stalag 13. I am now a Luftwaffe Oberst. I shall travel to Hammelburg and begin my duties as Kommandant just after the new year begins. I have no command experience, but I do know how to keep records and requisition supplies. I know how to delegate. I will do whatever it takes. I will not let Benjamin's son die._  
Peter turned the page. There was one final entry. Written in a shaky hand were the words  
 ** _5 Jan 41_**  
 _I am here. I will do what I must._

Peter closed the diary, returned it to its hiding place, and laid back on the bunk. He shut his eyes. What the hell am I supposed to do now? No wonder ol Klinky's havin' kittens. 'e bought 'is command. Bribed 'is way in. Bet ol' Hochstetter'd have a field day with that! Because it must be a secret, or he wouldn't 'ave thrown such a fit when I found it. 'e woulda just 'ad Schultz or the guv get it back for 'im.  
Suddenly exhausted, he fell deeply asleep and never noticed when the guard left the pail of soup and a hard roll inside his cell a few hours later.  
~TBC~


	8. Danger and Resolve

Krumm spotted that lazy American, Sgt. Carter, slinking between the barracks. "What are you doing out of your barracks, prisoner?"

Startled by the guard who had stepped out directly in front of him, Andrew jumped. "I-uh, we're not confined to the barracks or anything, and I was just going to see Sgt. Wilson."  
"What for?" Krumm squinted suspiciously.  
"Well, he's our medic, and I—" Andrew broke off as he realized maybe he really didn't want this particular guard to know why he needed to see Wilson. He decided it was better to just keep his mouth shut. Krumm had other ideas. He grabbed Carter by the arm. "Tell me!"  
"My side hurts where you jabbed me last week. I looked at it, and I think it's getting infected!"  
The guard's eyes narrowed. "Did you tell your Colonel Hogan about it?"  
"No, and let go of my arm!" Carter could have defended himself, given his own wrestling skills, but he really did not feel like getting shot.  
Krumm tightened his grip. "I don't believe you. Did you tell anyone where you were going?"  
Andrew was not stupid. He decided he was done talking.  
Krumm decided he would kill the American where he stood.

Schultz just really wished the camp would get back to normal. Things were much too quiet and the boys were far too well behaved. He was worried about all of them, especially Newkirk. He had not been able to figure a way to get into the cooler and he found the situation completely intolerable. He was going to have to—suddenly he heard a crashing sound coming from behind the closed recreation hall.  
He signaled for Langenscheidt to join him, and the two guards hurried around either side of the building. It took a moment for Schultz to process the scene before him. But it took no such time for Karl Langenscheidt. He raised his rifle and pointed it at his fellow guard. "Let him go, or I swear I will shoot you where you stand!"  
Krumm froze, holding an unconscious and badly beaten Andrew Carter in his left fist, with his right cocked, poised for yet another blow. His chin came up. "You won't shoot me. You would be a traitor." He pulled Carter, flopping like a ragdoll, around in front of him. "Besides, you would hit the American, not me. And then I would kill you."  
Karl shifted his rifle and aimed it right between Krumm's eyes. His voice was deadly cold. "Try me."  
Schultz realized he was standing right in the middle of a powder keg. One false move would touch off the fuse. And so, he did something he had never done before. He lied to one of his men "Krumm, you should listen to Karl. Do you know what he did before coming to Stalag 13? He was a sniper with a combat unit. He is a marksman. If he fires on you, he will kill you." _Colonel Hogan would have been proud.  
_ Krumm simply snorted. That was the moment Karl cocked his rifle, and the tension ratcheted up even higher. Krumm narrowed his eyes and stared at the younger guard trying to intimidate him. Langenscheidt stared back, frighteningly at ease, refusing to play the other man's game.  
For a big man, Hans Schultz could move very quietly when he wanted to, and he did just then. He realized that Carter needed help badly. While Karl kept Krumm's attention, Schultz moved slowly to the corner of the building. He prayed he could get someone's attention, and luck was with him. He looked over into the wide eyes of Louis LeBeau. He nodded his head slightly in the direction of Barracks 2. Louis got the message and ran towards the barracks.

Louis sounded the alarm in Barracks 2, and Hogan ran for Colonel Klink. He had had enough of pussy-footing around the commandant. His man was in trouble and he needed help right now. He would worry about the consequences later. He practically dragged Klink out of his office and down to the back of the rec hall.  
Hogan pulled Klink's sidearm out of its holster before Klink even knew what he had done. He needn't have bothered.  
Something in Langenscheidt's expression convinced Krumm, and he dropped Carter and his rifle. Karl stood rock-still and silent, the rifle still aimed at Krumm's forehead as Schultz cuffed the sullen guard. He turned to two of the other guards now surrounding the group.  
Schultz's voice was harder and colder than any of them had ever heard it. "Take him to the stockade." This was in the back, not far from the guard's quarters and almost never used, since the Germans rarely had discipline problems that were not handled by the Gestapo. The guards led Krumm away, secretly relieved his reign of terror was over.  
Klink, still unsure what was happening, turned to Schultz. "Explain this to me?"  
Kinch had gone to get Sgt. Wilson, who had been examining Carter. Wilson swore vehemently. He had lifted Andrew's shirt and seen the angry red wound on his side.  
Schultz looked at Klink. "There is your answer, Kommandant."  
By sunset, a truck was sent to pick up Krumm. It was rumored that he had been sent to the Russian front.  
That evening, in the Kantine, Karl Langenscheidt sat alone at a table nursing a beer. Hans Schultz joined him, setting his own beer on the table and a small basket of crackers between them. He looked the younger man over critically. He seemed down.  
"Are you alright?"  
"Fine."  
"I can see that. You did a good job today. You went along with my lie very quickly. You did not even act nervous at all."  
Karl sighed deeply. He took a long pull on his beer, nearly draining it. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked at Schultz. "Who said you were lying?"  
He stood and left the Kantine, leaving an astonished Schultz staring after him.


	9. A Visit

The next morning, Taffy Matthews petitioned the Kommandant for a visit to the cooler, since he wanted to let Peter know that Carter was in the infirmary after being attacked by Krumm.

What he couldn't have known was that at that point, Peter also needed someone to talk to. He had hated his father for so long, and now he didn't know what to feel. He had no idea what to do with the information he now possessed. So, later that morning, when he was informed he had a visitor, he rolled off the bunk and stood waiting. Schultz, who had taken back his cooler, placed a chair inside the cell. He gave no admonitions, knowing none were needed.

Peter was both surprised and oddly pleased to see the little Welsh chaplain. They did not always see eye-to-eye, but he knew Taffy would never lie to him. Taffy had been a prison chaplain when Peter had served time before the war, ** and though Peter had feared Taffy would use that fact against him, Taffy never had. This had earned, if not Peter's friendship, at least his respect and eventual trust.

Taffy told Newkirk about the attack on Carter. He would be in the infirmary for at least two weeks. Wilson was treating his infection with sulfa and praying it would get no worse. If it did, they would have to try to get penicillin through the underground, since local sources, while scarce, were a bit more reliable than depending on London. They had already determined they could send Louis to Paris to get it if they had to. Judging by his expression, Taffy realized that it was a very good thing that Krumm was no longer in camp, because Peter would have found a way out of the cooler and he _would_ have killed him.

They sat in silence for a few minutes and then Taffy asked him, "So, how are you doing?"

"Actually, Padre, I'm kinda glad to see you. I need to talk to somebody, and I think you might be just the right bloke."  
Taffy hid his surprise. "What can I do for you?"

He held up the diary. "I figured out why the commandant threw me in here. I nicked this along with the codebook. He wrote some stuff in here that could blow 'is career outta the water. An' he's scared what I'll do with it."

Taffy nodded. "Well, that would certainly explain his actions. I guess the question is, what are you goin' to do with the information now that you have it?"

Newkirk shrugged. "Nothin'. I don't want him out of here, 'cause like the guv says, at least with Klink, we know what we're dealin' with. Can't exactly put it that way to him though."

"No, that's true, but you could give him your word you'll keep his secret."

Peter scoffed, "Why should 'e believe me? I been lyin' to the man since the day 'e got 'ere."

Taffy smiled briefly. "Well, if what you read in that diary is true, then so has he."

Newkirk was silent as he considered the chaplain's words.

Taffy went on, "Why don't you ask to see him? Talk to him. Tell him the truth, Peter. Tell him you know what happened. I don't know what it's all about, but you need to talk to him." He looked at Newkirk more closely. "What is it, Peter? There's more goin' on here than just you worryin' about Klink's secrets. You know I'll never say anythin' to anyone."

Newkirk sighed deeply even as he nodded. "There is. It's part of what I found out in Klink's diary. It ain't no secret I hate me old man, an' he ain't never had no use for me either. He made our lives a livin' hell. But, it turns out it wasn't all 'is fault. Me old man was a soldier in the Great War, an' Klink met 'im! Can you beat that?" He shook his head at the thought. "There was an accident. A bad one, and me old man got 'urt. I never knew it, but he hit 'is head… nearly died. An' he's never been right ever since, on toppa bein' a drunk."

"I'm sorry, Peter. That's terrible."

Peter appreciated that the chaplain didn't try to smooth over the moment. After a few minutes, Taffy reached into his pocket and handed Peter a fresh pack of cigarettes and a new box of matches.

Taffy stood and looked through the small barred window. "You need to talk to the commandant. And be honest with him. About all of it. And then, make a pact with him. You will keep his secrets. And you will return the diary. I think he'll let you out of here when he realizes you're not a threat. As far as your father is concerned, think about this, Peter. What kind of man do you want to be when you're his age? I would suggest you write a letter to your father."

Schultz came to the door of the cell. "I am sorry, but time is up."

Newkirk nodded. "It's alright, Shultzie. Can you please tell Colonel Klink I need to see him? It's important." He then made one other request of Schultz that completely mystified the older man, but he agreed to pass along the message.

As Taffy turned to go, Newkirk startled him when he grabbed his hand and shook it. "Tell Carter I'll be in to see 'im soon. Thanks, Padre, for everythin'."

Taffy nodded and smiled. "Anytime, Peter." And Taffy Matthews left the cooler feeling better than he had in a long time.

~TBC~


	10. An Exchange

Wilhelm Klink was nervous. Corporal Newkirk had requested a meeting. And Klink was sure he knew what Newkirk wanted. The young man was a born conman who was constantly on the lookout for angles… for anything that would benefit him and his barracks-mates. And this time, he had enough ammunition to destroy Klink. As he crossed the compound, Klink felt as if he were treading a path to his own execution.

He stepped into the cooler and frowned. Newkirk's cell was empty. "Where is he?"

Langenscheidt came forward, sporting a rather impressive black eye. He was frowning and obviously angry. "He is in the cellar. I went in to bring him his lunch about twenty minutes ago, and he suddenly attacked me for no reason! He would not calm down. I didn't know what else to do, since I was alone."

The "cellar" was an underground cell. It was soundproof and had no windows or outside light. It was used for strict solitary confinement or for interrogations. Peter had spent an unfortunate amount of time in the cellar before Klink had arrived at the Stalag. Now, it was rarely used at all.  
Klink dismissed Langenscheidt and turned to Schultz. "Take me to him immediately!"

As they traversed the length of the cooler, one thing was crystal-clear to Klink. Peter Newkirk had never done anything in his life "for no reason." He wanted to talk to Klink in complete privacy. _This did not bode well at all._

When they reached the door, Klink turned to Schultz. "Unlock the door and then leave me. Come back in thirty minutes. That should be enough time. If it is not, I will tell you at that time."

"But…" Schultz's gaze dropped to the case in Klink's hands.

Pointedly, Klink looked at him. "You see nothing. Do you understand?"

Mutely, Schultz nodded. He unlocked the door, then turned and marched up the stairs.  
~HH~

When Klink stepped through the door, Peter was seated on the metal bunk. The single bare bulb threw his gaunt features into harsh relief. The concrete walls were filthy and smelled of stale sweat, ancient urine, and fear. Klink shuddered. He had always hated this room. He could not fathom spending a night here, let alone months at a time, as he knew Newkirk had on more than one occasion.

Peter stood and gestured grandly to the bunk. "'ave a seat m'lord?" His accent was thick with sarcasm. "Sorry, we're 'avin' the cushions redone just now, you understand."

Klink's patience finally snapped. "Stop with the games, Corporal. What do you want?" He did sit finally, on the edge of the bunk.

Newkirk chose a relatively clean spot on the floor and squatted there. He lit a cigarette. "Well, that's the thing, y'see." He reached into his greatcoat pocket. "It's like this." He pulled out the diary. Klink blanched and instinctively reached for the book. Newkirk held it back. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Kommandant. You'll get it. Just… not yet."

He took the cigarette from his mouth and studied the burning end. "See, I want you to understand I read the whole thing. I know a lot of things I didn't know before." He looked into Klink's pale eyes. "I know what you did. And I know why." Back the cigarette went to its customary spot in the corner of his mouth. He stretched a bit. "An' I won't say I'm not grateful. I got to thinkin' about it. That day you came here? I spent that Christmas right here in this room. I was here the day you took over."

Grimly, Klink replied, "I remember." He had ordered him released immediately, and Newkirk had spent the next month in the infirmary.

Peter shook away the memories and looked at the case Klink carried. "I see Schultz gave you me message."

"Yes, but I have no idea why in the world you wanted me to bring it."

Newkirk grinned. "Ah, you know me, Kommandant. I never give anything without exactin' a price. "Seein' as Christmas is only a couple months away, you can make it me Christmas present." Klink stared at Newkirk in confusion.

"I will give you the diary. And I will never reveal anythin' to anyone. But I want somethin' from you first."

"What's that?"

And Peter pointed to the case. There was no sign of his former cheekiness. "You played for me father when he crossed that field in France. I want you to play for me. The same way. The way we both know you can. But don't worry, I'll keep that secret, too." He smiled.  
Klink shook his head, beginning to panic. "No. Please, please don't ask me to do that! I can't!"

"Yes, Kommandant, you can. You've been hidin' your talent, blamin' yourself. You've been punishin' yourself, just like me da punished me for all those years. Me da can't help it. You can. You just have to forgive yourself and realize it was an accident. I'm a grown man, Kommandant. You saved me life. Now, save yer own."

And Peter Newkirk slowly stood and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting.

And Klink remembered the songs he meant. And he played. The sweet silvery notes of "Stille Nacht" floated around the small room. He followed it with "O Holy Night," the song he had sung as he'd trudged across No-Man's Land that night. He closed his eyes as he played and was transported far away from the fetid prison. For a few moments, Wilhelm Klink was onstage at the finest conservatory in Europe. And Peter Newkirk? Well, he found himself in tears for the second time in less than 24 hours.

When Schultz and Langenscheidt returned ten minutes later, Klink ordered Newkirk released from the cooler. No explanations were given or expected, although Peter did apologize to Langenscheidt. On the way upstairs, Peter had told Klink he intended to write to his father and suggested that maybe it was time they both began to put that long-ago Christmas behind them. Klink was beginning to agree with him.

~HH~

The first thing Peter did when he got back to Barracks 2 was drink an entire pot of tea. The second thing he did was take a shower. His barracks-mates would have appreciated his reversal of the two, but he flatly ignored their protests. The third thing he did was to swipe a half a box of biscuits out of the communal pantry and go to the infirmary to visit his best mate.

Newkirk kept his emotions under wraps remarkably well as he surveyed Carter's battered face and various other injuries. But, as usual, Andrew saw right through him. "Don't worry, Peter, I'm gonna be fine. You look like hell, though. You haven't been eating, have you?"

"Oh, leave off, you're worse than LeBeau. He's already pickin' at me! Don't need you on me, too!"

Carter just grinned. "I'm bored. Wanna play some checkers?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "How about poker? At least that, I've got 'alf a chance at beatin' you!"

Andrew chuckled wickedly as Newkirk left to round up the game.

They had played a couple of games, and Andrew had had enough. "Okay, pal. What's eatin' you?"

Peter splayed his hand over his chest. "Me?"

"Yeah, I usually have to at least try to beat you, but this is pathetic." He captured the last of Newkirk's checkers.

Peter sighed. "I need to write a letter to me Da, and I don't know what to say."

"Well, why are you writing to him?"

"Because, well, because…." He stumbled to a stop and looked helplessly at his friend.

'There's your problem right there. You can't write a letter to somebody until you know why you're writing to them. Figure that out first. Maybe you oughta go take a walk. Might help you think."

Newkirk smiled at his friend. "Thanks, Carter. Think I will." He lit a cigarette, and Andrew snagged it from him, inhaling gratefully. Newkirk grinned as they heard an indignant shout out of Wilson, "Knock it off you two! No smoking in the infirmary!"

Peter dropped the pack and matches quickly into Andrew's lap, who promptly hid them under his mattress. "Thanks, pal. See ya!"

~HH~

A walk around the camp did indeed clear his head, and when he got back to the barracks he borrowed a sheet of writing paper and an envelope from Olsen. He hopped onto his bunk and began to write.

 _27 Oct 42_  
 _Da:_

 _I'm not really sure how much of this letter you will understand. And I don't know whether I am writing it more for you or for me. I suppose it really doesn't matter much._  
 _I bet you never thought you'd be hearing from me. I cannot say I can forget all the years between us. That's too much to ask of any man. I never understood what really happened to you, and you would never talk about it. Now, I wish you had. I would have listened, no matter what you thought of me._

 _I know you never forgave the Germans for the injuries that nearly killed you. But you had no right to take it out on Mum. You had no right to take it out on me or Mavis or the kids. I won't tell you how I found out what happened that day at the field, but I know. It wasn't his fault. He never asked you to risk your life for him. You blamed him for an accident and wrecked a lot of lives in the process._  
 _You had no right to fulfill your promise to him by giving me his name and then punishing me for it._

 _I always thought you was just mean and angry. I knew you wasn't right in the head, but I thought that was just from the drink. Now I know better. And I am sorry for what happened to you. But I see what bitterness has done to you. I don't want to be you in twenty years. And so I forgive you. What you do with it is up to you._  
 _That's all I have to say._

 _Your son,_  
 _Peter_

~HH~

Back in his office, Klink sat behind his desk but his mind was on the young English prisoner in Barracks 2. He was a good man, no matter how hard he tried to convince everyone otherwise. Klink was not anywhere near as stupid as his superiors liked to think he was. He knew Stalag 13 was no ordinary prison camp. He was not entirely sure what was going on, and he was sure he didn't want to know. He knew he was being protected in his position by Hogan and his men. This suited his purpose well. As long as Benjamin Newkirk's son left the camp alive and relatively healthy, he would have no complaints. It had broken his heart to hear just how broken Benji really was.

Klink decided to follow Newkirk's advice. He wrote a letter to Benjamin. There were things he needed to say to him, and not just about what had happened in France. The emotions of the past few days were raw, and putting his feelings into words, as he had not done for the past several years was difficult, so he concentrated on what he really needed for Benjamin to understand.

He knew that he could not send the letter himself. It would arouse suspicions he could not afford. He placed it inside an envelope, and wrote Benjamin's name on the outside. He called Hilda into his office. "I have a favor to ask of you. I know you have contacts outside of Germany."

He watched as her eyebrow raised slightly. "I need this letter posted to someone in London. I will never ask any questions, but I would consider it a great favor if you could see to its disposition." He handed her the letter.

Hilda took the letter and read the name. She looked up at him when he spoke once again. "You must promise me that you will never speak of this to anyone—especially not Hogan or _any_ of his men." The slight emphasis he placed on "any" spoke volumes.

Hilda nodded and impulsively kissed him on the cheek, startling him. "You are a good man, Wilhelm Klink." She quickly left the office and Klink stood silently for a moment, his hand cradling the spot where she had kissed him.

 **~Epilogue~**

 **20 Nov 42**  
 **Stepney, London**

Francis knocked on the door of Mavis Newkirk's small flat. It had been a few months since his last visit, and he worried about her. Benji was very ill now and barely able to get out of bed.

Mavis answered, her pretty face drawn and tired. The privations of the war combined with the stress of dealing with her father and worry for her brother were taking a toll on her. A smile lit her face when she saw who her visitor was, and she let him in eagerly.

"Uncle Frank, you shouldn't be out in weather like this! You'll catch your death for sure!"

He chuckled. "Don't worry about me, little one. I'm fine. How's your da?"

Her face clouded. "Sleeps a lot. Which is good. Makes it easier for Mrs. Brooks next door to keep her eye on 'im when I'm at work. Made it harder when he wandered about. He can't see to do that so much now. He mostly stays in bed, even when I'm home."

Francis looked around the room. Peter's letters were gathered into a scrapbook on the coffee table and his boot-camp graduation photo now held pride of place at the center of the mantel. He also realized the trinkets and souvenirs Peter had bought for Mavis and his mother during his years away now decorated the room. It was painfully obvious Benji no longer spent time in this room. He sighed. "Has the doctor been to see him?"

"Yeah. He came 'round. Said the same old thing. 'is liver's shot. And so's his vision. Likely as not he won't make it through the winter. He may hate Peter, but his health has been getting worse ever since we found out he was captured. You know he won't listen to even one of Peter's letters; he never has, no matter how hard I try to get him to listen to reason." She showed him the most recent, which, unlike the others, was addressed to Benjamin himself. Even more unusual, Benjamin had received a second letter, which had just come in that morning's post.

Francis studied the two letters and came to a decision. He looked at Mavis. "I'm going to read both of these letters to Benji. That way, he will have the chance to listen. Whether he does or not is up to him."

He sat in the rocker in the small bedroom. First, he read Peter's letter. Although Benji said nothing, he at least did not stop Francis from reading. Francis figured he would take whatever he could get. He waited for a few minutes to try to gauge Benji's reaction to his son's words, but after five minutes of silence, he realized there would be none. He moved on to the next letter… the one Mavis had received that morning.

When he opened the envelope, Francis was surprised that a second, slightly smaller envelope fell out of the first. Where the outer envelope was typewritten and had an English postal mark, the inner envelope was hand-written and simply read "Benjamin Newkirk." Francis was amazed to discover the letter was from Wilhelm Klink. He watched Benji's face as he read for any sign of recognition, but as usual, Benji was unreadable.

 _27 Oct 42_  
 _Benjamin:_

 _I had to write to you to ask you to forgive me for what happened that day at the pond. I never meant for you to get hurt. I did not even know I was sitting anywhere near soft ice. And my reaction trying to save my violin was just reflex. It was the only thing I had left that meant anything to me. But I also want to say thank you for saving my life._

 _I never knew you had been hurt so badly. I am very sorry for that. I have something else to thank you for, and though you may think me odd, or even hate me, it is still the truth._

 _I doubt you know this, but I am the Kommandant, the commander of the POW camp where your son is imprisoned. I got myself placed there to make sure that he would survive and that I could send him home to you. I did not know how bad things were for you._

 _Because of what happened to you, I have gotten to know your son. Benji, he is a good man. He has told me some of what his life has been like, and I cannot help but feel that most of that is my fault. I have asked his forgiveness, and even though it made little sense to him, he gave it. You must listen to me… make amends with your son before it is too late! I will do my best to send him home to you. The rest is up to you._

 _Respectfully,_

 _Wilhelm Klink_

Francis was surprised when Benji grabbed his arm. His grip was still firm, despite his weakness. He had to bend close to hear the man in the bed. "Tell him, Franny. Tell him to send my boy back to me."

And Francis patted his arm gently. "I will, mate."

Francis looked up at Mavis as she stood across the room, her arms folded protectively around herself. She hurried from the room, barely able to control her tears. He followed her into the sitting room. He shut the door as she threw herself into his arms. "Why now, Uncle Frank? Why does he have to want to see Peter now? He's dying! Why did he waste all those years? All the years Peter was here and all he could do was beat 'im and scream at 'im until Peter had to run away! Why now?"

Francis's heart broke as he held Mavis close. "I don't know, love." He tipped her chin up and looked into her beautiful green eyes. "But I do know this war won't last forever. Peter will come home. And when he does, he'll need you. And I hope I can be here for both of you." He hugged her after she had blotted her tears with his handkerchief. She helped him with his coat and he reached for his hat and cane. "You're a good girl, Mavis Newkirk. It's a lucky man who'll have your hand one day." She rolled her eyes at him as she always did whenever he said this to her.

Once out on the sidewalk, Francis buttoned his coat against the frosty London air. He turned back and stared at the upstairs window where she stood gazing back down at him, much as she and Peter had done as children so many years ago. He waved at her and turned back toward the street. He ran his hand through his still-thick silver hair and remembered watching two young enemy soldiers meeting in a moonlit field deep in France so many years ago.

He pulled his coat tighter as he walked. He shook his head. He too had much to ask forgiveness for. But that would have to wait. He had promised Benji he would never tell Peter about the war and he never did. But he was busy during the years after the war and Benji had pushed him away, so he hadn't come around much. He hadn't realized how bad it had gotten until it was too late and Peter had run away. He knew his own day of reckoning was coming… when Peter came home. He sighed as he flagged down his bus. _Oh, Mavis, girl, I hope he'll let me be there for you…_  
As he sat looking out the pitted window of the bus, a couple of lines from a poem ran through his mind…

 _"_ _For the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame;_  
 _And on each end of the rifle we're the same…"_ ***

~The End~

A/N: * O Heilige Nacht—O Holy Night ** See my fanfic novel "Earthquake!" on FFN for this story. *** "Christmas in the Trenches," by John McCutcheon (The lyric was written in 1984, but, as this is the song that inspired this story, I claim creative license!) Thank you to my awesome beta reader xavionite and my research assistant wolfchild8168. I could not have done it without you!


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